


Worthy

by Acid_Rabbit



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 14:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acid_Rabbit/pseuds/Acid_Rabbit
Summary: There are things in this world which a person cannot come back from. Arthur knows this is one of them.





	Worthy

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've finished in ages. Thank you to the ftf_Merlin livejournal community for the motivation! (Finish That Fic Merlin)
> 
> Standard Disclaimer- I sadly do not own Merlin and made no money from this work.

 

 

There are things in this world in which a person cannot come back from.

Arthur knows this is one of them.

 

The boy is shaking. Vibrating. Knees gouging into the mudded earth, slender hands bound with terrible efficiency behind his back.  His clothes, and Arthur uses the term kindly, are rough and threadbare, the soles of his boots peppered with holes. His black hair is plastered to his scalp, head bowed, the knobby bones of his spine pressing against his pale skin. Rivulets of rain stream down emaciated cheek bones, dripping off the end of his nose.

He feels the weight of his sword in a way he hasn’t since he was a squire, green and stupid and in awe of everything and anything to do with knighthood, the polished metal the end-all-be-all of his rapture. He’d made each weapon a part of him, an extension of his own soul, tethered and mastered and loved.

This is the first time in his reckoning that the metal feels wrong.

The boy raises his head with an aching slowness, as though waking from a stupor.

There is no stupor in his eyes as they pierce Arthur’s.

They are wet with unshed tears.  His mouth is a thin slash, his eyes pinched at the corners. He looks resigned, but more than that, he looks…betrayed.

Arthur feels his face heat and his own lips thin. How dare this peasant, this, this _sorcerer_ , look on him in reproach? Hadn’t his kind caused enough heartache, enough pain and terror to last a thousand lifetimes in the kingdom, in Arthur’s kingdom? This mere slip should be cowering at his feet, not passing judgement.

Dark looks indeed must have cast upon his features as the boy’s eyes widen and then close. A long breath escapes through parting lips and he lowers his head.

“Do as you will, my King,”

Arthur jerks as though struck.

My King.

He is no sorcerer’s king.

He protects his people from these monsters. From the very thing kneeling in the mud at his feet. He had done for years as knight, then crown prince and now as King. His very first official day as King.

Today, actually.

He’d wanted to set a message to his people by leading the patrol. He would always be their champion. He would not send knights where he himself was not willing to go. They’d traveled here on suspicion of sorcerers in the nearby forests.

They’d spotted the strange smoke from the ridge and crept ever closer until they could see it clearly.

He narrows his eyes in memory. A smoke horse. Dancing in the air, galloping, and throwing it’s wispy mane about.

Arthur’s eyes widen and they see past the magic for the first time.

For the first time ever.

With quiet efficiency, he sheathes his sword and rounds the prisoner, whose body becomes taut, hands curl into fists. Arthur pulls the knife from his boot and grasps the bound hands in his. An indrawn breath and a shudder- Arthur places his palm on the thin back and even through his gloves can feel each shaking rib.

“Peace,” he soothes and in one fluid motion, cuts the rope. The sorcerer falls forward, catching himself, fingers hooked in the mud. Arthur stands straight and meets Leon’s puzzled gaze but gives nothing away. There are a handful of knights standing around, each watching him with confusion. He does not match them. He walks around the prisoner who is slowly righting himself, face painfully open and wary and waiting.

They stare at one another and Arthur wonders what he sees, what any of them see in him at that moment. He had felt young and invincible and unworthy kneeling at the dias the day before, the crown too heavy. The weight feels worse now.  And in this moment he feels anything but young.

“I had forgotten,” he says and the man at his feet jerks.

“Sire?” Leon asks as the silence fills the dense wood. Arthur holds the gaze of the sorcerer.

“I had forgotten,” he says again and louder, “or perhaps I had never been taught. I was taught that to be king was to carry a great burden. A burden of protection over the kingdom. Over the people within it,” he looks to Leon, to each man sworn to him, and then to the sorcerer who barely dares to breathe, “I had forgotten, that my oath meant _all_ of the people in it,” he extends his hand. The sorcerer stares at it, eyes ridiculously wide. Arthur waves his hand and when the captive looks up at him, Arthur nods encouragement.

There is hesitation still, but then a resolve firms in those dark eyes and with what the new king thinks is a herculean pulse of strength, thin fingers wrap around his and Arthur pulls him up from the mud.

The boy tries to pull his hand away but Arthur holds it tight. The boy looks at him in fear and jumps as Arthur deposits his small coin purse in the boy’s hand.

“Sire, what are you-“

Arthur slashes his hand at Sir Bors and the other goes silent. The boy looks as though he’s going to pass out any moment.

“I- I d-don’t understand,” he stutters, gaze darting between the coins and Arthur.

The corners of Arthur’s lips pull up, but his eyes feel hot.

“It is at the kings pleasure to give to those in need. Especially as you have committed no crime here and as such have been unlawfully detained,”

“Forgive me my Lord, but my entire existence is a crime,” the cheeky retort surprises and pleases Arthur. He’s never been one to suffer sycophants though they seem flock to his side readily enough.

“If it is, then so is mine,” the boy’s brows pinch in confusion but Arthur will not explain. He knows the truth of his conception, no matter how vehemently his father had denied it. But it is his business and his alone. He presses the coins harder into the boy’s hand and steps away.

“This is my kingdom now, my kingdom and my people,” he looks at the boy, “Every last one. Go now. And,” he wags a finger at the boy, “be good,”

That startles a smirk from the boy, but as Arthur straightens, so does the young sorcerer.  A moment more and then the boy bows at the waste and Arthur thinks there is more dignity and grace in this one gesture than that of the most refined and dedicated courtiers. He returns the gesture with a dip of his head, eyes never wavering. The boy backs away, one foot dragging through the mud after another, his gaze falling from the new king to his half circle of knights. Their presence seems to startle him and  seeming to think a quick retreat would be best, sprints off to the west where Arthur swears the trees enfold him and snare him away from their prying eyes.

Arthur turns to see each of his knights gaping at him, expressions ranging from dumbfounded surprise to outright anger and confusion. They began talking, voices raising higher in each second, all at once.

“Enough!” he roars, thunder writ across his features. They still at once.

“Sire, Arthur-“ Sir Leon, his First Knight and friend steps forward, “what you have just done, releasing a sorcerer-“

“A boy,” he counters.

“Sire, he may look like a boy but at his heart he a dangerous sorcerer. You saw, as we did, what he conjured-“

“Playing, Sir Leon. What we saw today was a boy _playing_ ,” he draws closer to his oldest friend, “I set out today with the intent to show my people how I am to rule. To show them who I am.” he looks to each knight who stares back at him as though seeing him for the first time. They might well be. He thinks he is seeing himself for the first time. “I loved my father. But I am not him. And I will not begin my rule with the execution of a child,”

He looks at each of them in turn, takes in the hesitancy in some, marks the anger in others, and holds close to his heart Leon’s expression of dawning approval.  He slogs through the mud and mounts his horse, his jaw set and body loose as though he isn’t concerned at all with his knights’ opinions of what he’s just done. He nickers at Llamrei and they set out at a calm pace.

The weight of what he’s just done, what he’s proclaimed, takes a full day to sink in. By nightfall his shoulders are heavy and his mind spinning and he wonders just what the hell he’d done in a fit of pique.  But then he looks up from the fire to see Sir Bors staring at him thoughtfully. Sir Leon hands him a mug of ale and Sir Kay who had been his father’s man claps him on the shoulder in passing and maybe…

His father had always warned him that leading with his heart would be his downfall. Perhaps one day that will prove so. Perhaps one day the boy he’d just spared will be his doom.

Arthur lay back, arms folded behind his head and stares up at the swirling night sky.

Just maybe…

 

* * *

 

 

Three years have soared by and Arthur gives the boy only a passing thought upon occasion. Ironic in a way seeing how every monumental change Arthur has effected in the kingdom was born of that fleeting encounter with him. It took more effort to reverse his father’s laws on magic than the most terrible of battles Arthur had ever fought. Shouting and cursing and a flung chair and that was just the council’s reaction. But Arthur was nothing if not stubborn in his righteousness. He cajoled. He appealed. He played the game and one by one most of his councilors conceded his point and once on his side, made valuable contributions of wisdom to make new and just laws concerning magic. Those that could not be swayed, left with his most heartfelt good riddance.

Amongst those, was his uncle Aggravaine and his desertion hurt more than Arthur had the words to admit. Though, not as much as seeing him at the head of the army that had ringed the castle. There were no words for the betrayal he felt, the heartbreak at the last of his family turning a blade against him. Beside him sat Morgana. He had not seen her in long years. Vanished with the witch Morgause.  He could not see the blonde woman and Arthur could only hope it meant she was dead.

They couldn’t hold the citadel for long against Morgana. Only long enough to evacuate the civilians, as many as they could, and far too few by Arthur’s count.

He’d been forced to flee with his men, and regroup with the army five days later. The bitter taste of retreat had yet to leave his tongue. But now it mingled with blood. Leon was calling for him across the field but he could not answer.

He coughed bile and iron. Shooting pains, sharp and jagged tore through his chest and he feebly clutched his torso. The axe had struck true and Arthur lay on his back, staring at the vivid blue sky, blurred with tears, eyes stinging with sweat. His spirit cried out, angry and writhing.

_It can’t end here_. He thinks. How could this possibly be the end? He rages against his body. Against legs that will not stand. Against lungs that will not draw enough air. His men are screaming around him. He is the best fighter. Their leader. He needs to be up. He needs to fight. He needs…needs…

His vision swims, a huge bird whirls overhead. It flies out of his sight and back and larger and white against the sky and a great _whump,_ _whump_ sound roars in his ears and a shadow blocks out the sun and his breath stutters in his ruined lungs.

Dragon.

Dear gods, Morgana has a dragon.

He closes his eyes. A tear streaks through the grime of his face.

There is no hope now.

How foolish. Gaius had been right to call him an idealistic fool, no matter the fondness it had been uttered with. Camelot will fall because he cannot rise. Because no matter how hard he pleaded, he could attain no magical allies. The Druids would not fight. And what magical people he could find were too frightened to fight. More the fool, he.

A great weight shakes the earth near his head and he knows it has landed.

He waits for the stillness, for the calm of impending death to overtake him, but instead a great shiver wracks his frame sending hurtling bolts of glass through his chest, in his heart, and he gasps and arches and tries to scream but there is no air, no breath and his mouth is wide and there is warmth on his forehead and words, soft and urgent and it overtakes him, all of him. The shudders subside and twitch and air, warm air of a summer’s night falls over him, through him and the pain slides away, out as oil from a lamp and it’s gone, gone, all of it gone.

He blinks, colors swirling in a fog, coalescing and pale and black and red and blue and a face, a pale face with black hair stares back, tight with worry. He knows this face.

“Smoke horse,” he rasps, gloved hand reaching up and long fingers wrap around his hand, a ridiculous grin stretches the face.

“Well, I’ve been called a horses ass before. I usually prefer to be called Merlin. But it’s nice to be remembered.”

“Merlin,” he nods and inhales sharply as the hand gripping his begins pulling him up to a sitting position.

“How do you feel?”

The tip of his tongue is laced with venom. He’s been hacked with a battle axe, how does the idiot think he feels? Except-

He looks down at his chest. Blood soaks his torn maille and padding beneath. But his flesh…flesh that he had been sickened, had been horrified to claim as his own mere moments ago is whole. He pulls his hand from the sorcerer’s and shaking, pulls open his shirts and gently probes his chest. There is an ache, a soreness like one received in training from a club but other than a jagged, silvery white line, there is nothing. He inhales deeply and feels only the slightest of pulls. He stares at Merlin in wonder.

“You healed me,” he breathes.

The other man shakes his head.

“Not me. I’m no good with healing spells. No, Aithusa is the one to thank.” He gestures behind Arthur’s head. The King turns and comes nose to nose with the white dragon.

“Aaagghh!” Arthur surges back, tangling in his own feet, scrambling for a weapon that he’d already lost. He crab walks back a few feet and thinks his eyes will pop out of their sockets as he watches the sorcerer surge upward and throw his arms around the creatures’ head and is he actually-

“Are you- are you _cooing_ to that, that _thing_?”

Merlin’s eyes narrow and his mouth purses. He hugs it harder. “Aithusa is not a thing. She’s a sentient being and I realize it happened ages ago but I hope your dimwitted majesty will recall that she just saved your life,”

“Dimwitted-“

“AND!” Merlin juts out his chin, “she’s also just a baby. Words hurt, sire,”

“I- just see here- a baby!” Arthur struggles to his feet and takes an unsteady step towards his glaring rescuers. A hand on his arm halts him and he turns to see Sir Leon staring past him.

“Are you, are you alright, Sire? I saw you fall, but-“ and Leon is shaking. That draws Arthur up short. He’s never seen Leon shaken. And it isn’t because of the dragon.

_I saw you fall._

 

He looks back to the young man and his dragon. Merlin is soothing the beast, stroking it’s great neck, its wing curled protectively over his back. This isn’t a boy playing anymore. This is a man and a juvenile dragon and somehow, wonderingly, even through the defiant stares, they look young and afraid. Afraid of him and his judgement. It is…humbling. He inhales slowly, calmly.

“You have repaid your debt, if that is why you have come,” Arthur says, heart tripping in his chest. He lives. But their side of the battle is crumbling. They cannot hold out against Morgana and her followers much longer. “I thank you. But if you are finished, then you need to go. If Morgana catches you, either of you, she will consider you traitors and destroy you,”

The boy tilts his head and looks at him in a way that makes Arthur feel hollow and laid bare, weighed and his measure taken. Leon is trying desperately to quietly protest his decision and he feels rather than sees his closest knights standing at his back, the battle moving just beyond them.

“You won’t order me to stay? Or Aithusa? Forgive me, but even I can see you are fighting a losing battle. I would think the King would welcome magical allies,”

“I would. With all my heart. But I cannot command you to remain,”

The smile that slides slowly across the sorcerer’s face is beatific in it’s approval. Arthur feels the way he did all those years ago, sitting at the campfire, feeling in his heart of hearts that he was on a path of something more, something greater than he could ever imagine. Something right and true.

“I think I’ll stay, all the same. Besides,” he turns to the dragon and unstraps something from its back, “I brought something you’re going to need if you want to defeat the priestess Morgana,”

“And what is that?” Arthur walks forward, curious despite his men’s protests. Merlin ignores them and turns to him, a leathered cloth stretched out over both hands. He hands it to Arthur with that same reverent, elegant movement he remembers from that mud soaked field.

A sword, he knows instantly. Flipping the leather off, a shiver of a different sort falls through him.

“I…I know this sword,” he is startled by his own words. He runs his hand over the runes etched in gold and looks up to Merlin, “ I don’t know how, but I know this sword. How do I-“

Merlin gently pushes it closer to Arthur’s breast. “Because it belongs to you Arthur. You are the Once and Future King. It was made for you, forged in a dragon’s breath,” Arthur’s gaze flicks to Aithusa and back, “And this sword is the only thing in all the world that can kill the Priestess,”

“But why? Why do this? You’re a sorcerer. You’re going against your own. Why help me?”

Merlin taps his finger to his lips in thought and hums, “Why did you help me those years ago?”

Arthur holds his gaze, “ I did what I felt was right,”

“My actions are no different. Morgana abuses the gift she was given. But you…I will fight with you, Arthur Pendragon, and stand at your side til the day I die.”

The oath rings through Arthur’s core, vibrating and mending the tears in his soul. He sheaths the magnificent sword and extends his hand. Merlin startles, his eyes blowing wide and then his mouth stretches into a ridiculous grin. He thrusts out his hand and Arthur moves his arm forward to clasp the sorcerer just below the elbow. Merlin mimics the movement, happiness replaced by awe. It is obvious the other man understands the gesture for what it is.

“Let us hope today is not that day,” Arthur says with an uptick of his lip. Merlin grins, skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. He drops his hand and turns to his men, Merlin standing just behind his shoulder, as though he’d always been there. The King looks to each of his men, grimy and rough but not beaten, all looking to him. He straightens his spine and lifts his chin.

“Loyal men of Camelot, we have a kingdom to take back. What say you?”

The roar is nearly as deafening as the dragons’.

 

* * *

 

 

They’ve caught up with the main army and are standing on the small hill above the battle. Arthur’s heart gives a little twist as he spies her.

His sister whom he had loved and failed.

She is wrath and vengeance and all the dark tales he’d ever heard made flesh and bone. She stands at the far end of the field, a smoldering form, diminutive, and yet she towers above the fighters before her. Black smoke curls around her, her shrieks echo the field, fire spits from her fingers. There are other sorcerers wreaking havoc as well, but they are well in the thick of the chaos. His own warriors are a whirlwind of silver glittering movement, red capes swirling as living things. If he didn’t understand the true horror of battle, he would think it beautiful.

“We could try to circle around her, come from behind.” Sir Leon suggests, standing at Arthur’s shoulder on his right. Arthur’s jaw hardens as he sees her arrogance. She fights from behind her army, her men. But in leading from behind, she has left her back unprotected.

“True, but it’ll take us too long on foot. We need our mounts.” Sir Percival says grimly.

“Too bad they buggered off.” Sir Gwaine shrugs into the comment a touch too cheerily for Arthur’s taste, though the statement is true enough. He supposes they could be flown over by the dragon, and that thought alone has bile tinging the back of his throat. But he doubts it big enough to carry them all at once. He’d hoped to use it as a distraction. If Morgana and her forces were focused on the unexpected creature, then he and his men might have a chance to circle in behind her. But they need to move quickly. Quicker than they can manage on foot.

“You mean, these horses?”

They all turn to see Merlin standing with head tilted, eyes flashing gold. Rustling from the trees behind them and Llamrei is stepping out, followed by all the other mounts. Plus a few that Arthur is pretty sure belong to the enemy.

“How did you-“ Sir Bors takes his mare by the bit, eyes wide.

Merlin rolls his eyes and wiggles his fingers, “Warlock, remember?”

“Yes, yes, Merlin. You’re quite clever.” Arthur grouses, but knows his grin belies the antagonism. Merlin’s grin only stretches wider. “If you’re done showing off…” Arthur mounts his steed as do the others.

Merlin’s bow this time is careless and impudent. He bounds gracefully onto his own thin saddle strapped to the back of the pale beast.

“I’ll keep them busy, shall I?” he says, eyebrows raised as he grasps the reigns in his hands.

“Take out her sorcerers while you’re at it, will you? If that’s not too much of a bother.” Arthur replies lightly.

Merlin dips his head pats the dragon’s neck and gutters a command Arthur doesn’t recognize.

Aithusa does.

The dragon shrieks, flaps her great wings and in a gust of wind, pushes from the ground and is off and circling over the battlefield.

“Now, let’s hope one our own men don’t shoot them down.” Gwaine mutters. Arthur grimaces but there’s nothing for it.

“Then let us finish this quickly.” He swings his new sword over his head and points it forward, “On me!” he cries. He kicks his spurs into his mount and they surge forward.

 

* * *

 

 

They are flanking the battlefield and it takes all of his will to ride past and not engage. His jaw clenches tight. He rides low over Llamrei’s neck. Sweat pores down his neck. Filth and blood and horse fill his nostrils, screams and groans fill his ears and over it all is the roaring of that great beast in the sky.

She swoops low, banks and weaves and flies straight up and circles and swoops again. That little spot clings ever to her back, guttural words spewing forth and undiscernible from this distance, but Arthur can see the results from his peripheral vision all the same.

Enemy soldiers stagger back, holding burning, empty hands. Men are flung backwards like dried leaves, left broken upon the ground. Llamrei is snorting and panting beneath him, and Arthur pushes him harder.

A fireball surges from a sorcerer’s hand into the air. Aithusa banks left, the fire flying under her wing. Another and the dragon rears back, flapping furiously, hovering in the air. He sees Merlin duck as the ball singes the dragon’s neck. Furious words pore forth and the next fireball erupts in the enemy sorcerer’s hand, engulfing him and there is no time for suffering as the fire expands he flies apart into thousands of flaming little pieces.

That has caught Morgana’s attention.

She howls in rage and Arthur feels a grim satisfaction in his heart. It is the first crack in her armour. The very real notion that there is someone out there that can defeat her pets.

The very real fear that maybe they can defeat _her_.

All of her attention is now focused solely on her aerial opponent.

A spike of fear seizes his guts. Merlin was the distraction they needed, but Arthur knows what his sister is capable of. He genuinely does not want Merlin to become another casualty of her madness.

They are rounding the field now and Arthur has a view of a battle he’s never had before. He’s never ridden at the back of one before now. Morgana is stood on an outcropping of grey rock, arms outstretched, wild black hair tossing about her.

Men are bashing against each other like waves on rocks.

And Merlin and his beast are soaring on currents, deadly grace, and Arthur feels as though he is watching an ancient war, a battle of the old gods. Aithusa spits fire and ash upon the enemy, Merlin flings others away. The sorcerers are no match for the young man. One raises his staff only to have it sprout limbs and vines that twine around the horrified man’s hand, slithering down his body, rooting in the earth until it swallows and encases him whole, a leafy oak tree now upon the bloody field. A sorceress screams, raises her hands, and lightening shoots from the sky, striking the dragon’s tail. Aithusa screams, twists in the air, Merlin holds on for dear life and the woman lifts her hand to strike again. A whirlwind of violent air surges around her, lifting her from the ground and throws her down upon the new oak, her body impaled on a branch. Her feet kick, body spasms and is limp.

One of his own men cuts down the next sorcerer.

He and his knights spread out in a half circle, riding fast for their target.

Morgana has yet to see them.

Forty yards away.

She lifts her hands.

Thirty-five.

Aithusa is steadying in the air. Merlin shaking his head. Getting his bearings.

Twenty now.

Morgana spreads her arms. Dips her hands low. Brings her palms up, facing the sky.

Ten.

Pushes them outward.

And screams.

Rocks and boulders shudder from the ground, suspend for but a moment…

Five. He can see the lace pattern in her dress.

The stones shoot up from the ground and have but one target.

They slam into the dragon with such force that she is driven back in midair.

She cries out in pain.

They hit her wings, her face, her limbs. They smash against Merlin’s legs, his arms. Pelt his face. Aithusa spins wildly, panicked and screaming and shrieking in fright and pain.

“NO!” Arthur screams, leaping from Llamrei. Morgana whirls around, an ugly smile on her face. Surprise shoots through it at seeing how close the knights have gotten. She sweeps out her arm and his men and mounts fly backwards. Arthur surges forward.

“Face me, Morgana!” he growls.

“So brave, brother. Always the hero,” she coos. Carefully she descends from her perch as gracefully as though she were still at court, come to welcome a suitor. “But you know how the story ends for the hero, don’t you Arthur?” she says sweetly. As she comes to stand but a little ways away from him, her lips twist into a snarl, her voice pitches low, “The hero dies. Every single time.”

“Perhaps. But I also know how it ends for the villain. Time for your story to end, Morgana,”

She throws back her head and laughs, that long slender, pale throat exposed and he realizes in this moment that he does not feel the remorse that he thought he would. His Morgana had died long ago. He is done mourning.

He brings the magnificent sword up but a force batters against his chest and throws him back. He lands with a crack on the ground, lungs seize and gasp. He draws his arms in and struggles up on elbows. He cannot see Aithusa in the air. His men are attempting to rise but Morgana’s eyes flash gold, her gaze snapping to each of them and whatever she has done, has pushed them back to the ground and they flail as though a great weight is pressing them down.

“I must say, I am impressed, brother. I knew that brat had a soft spot for you, but I never imagined he’d risk his neck, not to mention his precious dragon, to fight for you.”

That she knows Merlin surprises him.

“Jealous he wouldn’t fight for you?” he taunts, his breathing still labored but getting easier with each breath. The sword lies but a foot from his hand. It might as well be on the other side of the earth.

“Jealous?” she scoffs but he has known her since they were children. Even now, he sees through to her wounded pride. “Merlin is soft. Weak. He is nothing compared to me, to my power. He chose to turn his back on our people. Decided to take his beloved egg out of my reach. I can’t believe he’d finally come out of hiding for you.” She sneers.

Arthur shakes his head. “You truly are lost. You confuse mercy with a weak will. Compassion with inability. You underestimate your enemy. It will be your doom.”

She staggers back at his words. He doesn’t understand her reaction.

“You know nothing. I know my doom. And you, Arthur Pendragon, are not that.”

“No, but I am,” the deep voice is breathless but strong. Morgana turns in a whirl of skirts, true terror etched deep across her face. Arthur’s breath huffs in profound disbelief.

There, bracing himself on the rock with a thin branch from the oak tree, bleeding from his temple, holding his other arm tucked around his chest, is that cheeky bastard.

“Merlin!” Morgana hisses.

“One in the same,” he shrugs and instantly winces.

“You should have stayed with your dried up king in the Perilous lands.”

“How could I, when my king is here?”

“Your king is a fool’s dream. I’m going to enjoy tearing you apart, my little hawk.”

Merlin’s lips turn up, but it is a sad tilt of the mouth, bitter.

“Why don’t you call me by my true name Morgana? Just this once.”

Her brow furrows, caught wrong footed. Arthur’s fingers twitch towards his sword, but she is hyper aware of him and his hand feels as though a spike is driving it into the ground. He cries out through gritted teeth, other hand scrambling to release it. His men are yelling now, enraged and helpless. He collapses back and watches through narrowed eyes as Merlin, injured as he must be, stands tall, face darkening in fury.

“Enough!” his voice shakes the very earth. Morgana stumbles, eyes wide, and though Arthur doesn’t understand, he does understand that whatever is happening, Morgana is truly seeing Merlin for the first time.

“How can this be? How can you-“

“My name, Morgana. Say it,” he bites out.

She is shaking her head, her wild mane tossing about her face. She steps back. Her hand outstretched before her, not to fight, but to ward against.

Arthur feels some give in his hand.

She steps back again. Only two paces from Arthur.

“You know my name,” Merlin’s eyes flare gold. The clouds gather, darken. The wind shudders through the trees. “Say it,” he hisses.

“Emrys.” She whispers, her voice quivers.

Merlin, Emrys, lifts his chin, “Emrys.” He confirms.

Arthur cannot take this in right now. He knows this name. But he cannot reconcile it right now. His hand is loosening, the pain receding.

“But you can’t- it can’t be you! It can’t be you!” she screams and raises her other hand and Arthur can _feel_ the charge of magic in the air, feels it scrambling and clawing and raking the very life around him and his hand is released like a spring.

Morgana is screaming a string of words and Merlin is raising his hands, the staff falling away, his legs unsteady and Arthur rolls over, his fingers fumbling, grasping, failing, grabbing the hilt, he pulls the sword to him, gains his knees, whirls around, surges up-

-grabs Morgana by that wretched mane, pulls back her head, her words stagger and gasp, and he plunges the sword through her lung, up into her heart.

She writhes against him, vomits blood as he drags the blade back out through sinew, scrapes against bone.

He lets the sword fall. Turns her in his arms. Collapses with her and cradles her on his knees on the solid earth.

She is looking at him, reaching for him. He takes her hand. Her body jerks. Pity settles over him like a mantle.

“May you be at peace, my lady.”

She stares at him. Shudders. And then she is gone.

He bows his head.

Looks up.

Merlin is collapsed on the rock, propped up on one arm, hunched in on himself.

“Alright there, Merlin?”

Merlin pants, “Never better.”

A hand grips his shoulder. He squints up into Leon’s concerned visage. He looks around and sees his knights have gained their feet and through the roar of blood in his ears he can hear Gwaine and several others yelling over the battlefield that Morgana is dead.

“Sire?’

“Fine, Leon. You?”

“As Gwaine would say, nothing a few nights in the tavern won’t cure.”

A laugh bubbles up Arthur’s throat and he nods his head. Exhaustion bloats and surges upward, ensnaring him and it is all he can do to stand with Morgana, dead and draped within his arms.

Percival lopes around Merlin’s perch from the battlefield and jogs up to him.

“Sire, Morgana’s forces are fleeing the battle. Our men are in pursuit.”

“Arthur.”

He looks over to Merlin who is wearily wiping the blood from his face, but the younger man only succeeds in smearing it more and up into his hair, spiking it and matting it to his head making him look more like some crazed wildman than the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth. If the Druids are to be believed anyway. He’s certainly not going to contest it.

“Merlin?”

“I just- it’s-“ he sighs, visibly gathering himself, “Many of Morgana’s men believed in her cause. Would die for her. But there were just as many who were not here of their own free will. I was able to smuggle many people, some with magic, some without, into the Perilous lands, but not all.”

“You hid them from her?” It explains why he find so few sorcerers when he was originally seeking their aid.

Gwaine had made his way back to them and leaned against the rock, looking up at Merlin with a rakish grin, “So you were able to keep Morgana from crossing those lands for more reluctant recruits?”

“Well, I am a Dragonlord. And Wyvern are close cousins of dragons and the Perilous lands are inundated with them. And not nice men make tasty treats, so yeah.”

“So what you’re saying,” Arthur says directly, “is that we need to take prisoners from those fleeing the battlefield and separate the wheat from the chaf.”

“Basically.”

“Why is it, Merlin, that whenever you enter my life, it gets invariably complicated?”

Merlin opens his mouth, not a little affronted but Arthur shakes his head and turns to Leon, “Take prisoners. We’ll sort them out when we get back to Camelot.” He turns back to Merlin, “Will that please his Lordship?”

The blinding smile in response echoes his own.

The others move to follow his orders and he slowly walks towards the boulder and gently lays Morgana upon it. Merlin scoots over and looks down into her lifeless features with a loss that says his familiarity with Morgana goes far deeper than Arthur feels comfortable knowing.

“One day, Merlin, you’ll tell me all of it.”

Merlin’s countenance is solemn as he nods, “But not today.”

“No. Not today.”

Merlin ghosts the back of his hand over her chin, bloody lips, grime smeared cheeks. His fingers tremble and he rests his hand on her tangled hair and his eyes flash golden light and there...there is the Morgana Arthur remembers. Her hair is splayed out in dark silken tresses, her face pale and clean once more.

Arthur swallows and heaves himself up to sit at her side. He looks over the field, over bodies and banners and staggering men. He sees a white mass at the far end.

“Aithusa?” he asks.

Merlin turns to look and then back at Arthur. “Injured, but nothing that won’t heal. Dragons, especially as young as she, heal remarkably fast. I wager she’ll be eating your farmer’s sheep within the week.”

Arthur pins him with a glare, but Merlin is wholly unrepentant. Arthur grins, a boyish upturn of lips. He’s never been one to surround himself with sycophants. Why should he start now?

“Can she heal you?”

Merlin grimaces, “She can heal my broken ribs. But if you want her to help with the worst of your men’s injuries, she needs to conserve her strength and heal only the most dire wounds, otherwise she won’t be strong enough to heal herself.”

Arthur is taken back. He stands in awe. He had hoped to ask Merlin about his men, but to see the offer so freely made… “Thank you,” he says urgently, serious, “if you hadn’t come, we, Camelot, would have been lost. I would have died today. My friends would have died today.” And he thinks of Gwen helping in the hospital tent and what would have become of her if this crazy idiot and his dragon of all things, had not turned up.

Merlin shakes his head. “I only came because of you. When we met, all that time ago, I was living in a cave, surviving on the kindness of the druids. Drinking in their stories like a starving man about a king that would unite all the lands of Albion and allow magic to thrive. A king that would not only suffer me to live, but that would welcome people like me. I didn’t believe it. When you cut my bonds, I thought you were going to slit my throat. But you didn’t.” he looks at Arthur with wet eyes, “I believed then. As I do now. How could I have not come for you?”

Arthur swallows past the tightness in his throat. How could he have even begun to guess that by sparring one man’s life years ago, he would inadvertently set up the piece that would save his kingdom?

He bows his head, Merlin returns the gesture.

The King slides off the rock and reaches out his arms to aid the warlock down. Merlin leans heavily against him and Arthur can only guess at all the damage the other man is harboring. He carefully guides them away from the rock.

“Finish it.” He whispers. Pleads.

There is a hitch in Merlin’s breathing, but shaking, he stretches out his hand.

“Forbearne.”

And the pyre for Morgana, priestess of the old religion, lost sister to the king of Camelot, is lit.

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin’s flames burn so hot that not even bone remains.

“It’s over.”

Arthur acknowledges the truth of it in his heart but there is so much yet to be done that he cannot celebrate it, not yet.

Instead, he urges the warlock towards Llamrei and helps him mount up, wincing at the pain in the other mans’ face. Mindful of the sorcerer’s injuries, Arthur climbs up behind him and nudges the animal into a gentle gait towards the white dragon.

“So, how do you feel about feathered hats?” he begins conversationally.

“Feathered what?”

“Hats, Merlin. Keep up. How do you feel about them?”

“I don’t know anything about them. Why?”

“Well, as my official court sorcerer you’ll have to wear the official livery. So, peacock feathers?”

“What!” Merlin squawks, “You’ll be sprouting peacock feathers out your-“

“Tsk, tsk. That’s treason, Merlin.”

“And maybe I don’t won’t to be your stupid Court anything!”

The dragon is peering over her flank now, tilting her head and sharing a puzzled frown with the knight protecting her.

“It’s an honor to serve your king, Merlin.”

“Honor my-“

“Language. After all, Aithusa _is_ just a baby.”

“Oh you haven’t even begun to hear language, sire,”

Arthur laughs as Merlin begins his tirade in earnest.

He thinks about the days to come and how there are some things in the world a man cannot come back from.

Things he is very grateful for indeed.

 

End


End file.
